By Appleton Oaksmith

My lady-love so cold has grown
I cannot meet her eye
But that my heart sinks like a stone,
And I but wish to die.
There was a time when her dear glance
Was warmer than the sun;
But now my love hath little chance
For hope to dwell upon.

“Why hath she changed?” I ask the winds
Which pass me kindly by;
But each dead leaf the cause reminds,
And all things make reply.
I wander in the woods at eve,
And watch the dead leaves fall,
And chide myself that I should grieve
For what doth come to all.

“Change, change,” is written everywhere
Upon the earth and sky;
We breathe it with life’s morning air,
We live it when we die.
Then wherefore should I grieve that she
Acteth so well her part,
Since greater change can never be
Than in a woman’s heart!

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